The Most Beautiful Girl In The World (Part 1)

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 “Tell me again Mama.”  The little girl looked into her mother’s eyes, hopeful that she would see a trace of what she longed for.  “Tell me what my daddy called me when he saw me.” Her little eyes sparkled in delight as she smiled, inhaled deeply, and slowly released her breath, turning away and closing her eyes to envision a face like hers, but masculine, with finely chiseled lines indicating the many hardships life attempted to throw his way, but he had championed.  Her daddy was her hero; Super Man come to life.

“Oh Baby Girl,” Mama said, as she stroked the long coarse tresses of her only daughter’s hair, with a wide-toothed brush, attempting to soften it enough to sit in a bun atop her head. She stalled for a while before speaking, taking a peek out of the living room window sitting to her left. Speaking of her husband had become burdensome.  One in which she hesitated to bear, by quickly changing the subject whenever his name was brought up in conversation. It was the only way she knew how to sustain some measure of strength in order that she could carry on with life.

A tear slowly made a trail down her cheek, puddling at the cusp of her smile. “Your daddy,” she started slowly, “used to say that you were the most beautiful girl in the world.  Then, he would whisp you into his arms and fly you through the air.  You were his gift sent straight from God.  An angel.” The crackle sound from hair making its staunch resistance against the brush pierced the silence that sat between them; both lost in the fantasy of reflection.

She looked forward to this part of the day.  When Mama would come home from work, drop the load of her bags on the kitchen table and, still dressed in her uniform, plop down on the sofa and pat the inside of her knees. This was the indication for Sasha to come and sit on the floor in front of her mama. This was their special time, just before she went to bed.  Even though the tired from cleaning homes all day was written into the sulk of her chest; Mama would still take time to take her hair down from all of the pretty bows and bands she had placed in the night before, massage her scalp with grease, and then invent a fresh style for her to wear the next day.

As she prepared for bed that night, Sasha adjusted the hair scarf around her new style so that it loosened enough to not cause her head to hurt. She looked at her silhouette in the foggy bathroom mirror, collecting more steam from the warmth of the water in the tub.

“You are the most beautiful girl in the world.” She repeated her nightly mantra to the blurred image staring back at her, making her voice deep in an attempt to mimic that of her father’s.

Then she smiled and walked in the direction of her room, which sat alongside her mother’s. By the time Sasha had finished her bath, Mama was already asleep, possibly in dream land judging from the sound of her soft snores.

The next day when Mama dropped her off at school, she still had the words of her nightly motivation playing in her ears. She needed the shield their encouragement provided.

“Oh, it must be such a pity to be so dang pretty.” The girls would tease as soon as she stepped into Mrs. Dandy’s second grade class. Sasha had loved school before the second grade.  She craved learning new things, and soaked knowledge in like a brand new sponge. She also enjoyed the social time with her friends.  One she couldn’t so readily do at home because Mama would not allow her outside of the apartment without her being there, which was most of the time.

The chant she was greeted with daily was one seeded in malice. What made it worse is that the leader in this group  of hecklers was who she once considered her best friend.  Her name was 

Maddy-Grace. Their father’s were best friends, and it was Maddy-Grace who was there with her on the day which changed her life forever. She thought Maddy-Grace would be by her side always; which made it hurt even worse to be sitting on the receiving end of her taunts and dirty stares.

As she pushed past the girls while they snatched and grabbed at the straps from the sleeves of her favorite dress, she was able to make it to her desk this time without skinning her knee in the crack on the tile at the front of the classroom.

Sasha sat in her assigned seat, in front of Jared, the boy from the complex next to her building, and also the one she and Maddy-Grace had mutual crushes on.  Of course, if left up to Sasha, Jared would never know how she felt about him.  On the other hand, everyone in homeroom knew that Maddy-Grace liked Jared.  She almost put her mark on him by making sure during recess, every time Jared would climb the jungle gym, and slide down the slide, she was there to greet him with a bashful smile, and a hello; waving her right hand so fast it almost looked as though it were vibrating independent of her arm. Sasha rolled her eyes at the thought.

The taunting went on endlessly throughout grade school, and into middle school.  She thought by the time they made it to high school, the girls would have matured enough to let up, but in the way they felt it their personal responsibility to  make her life miserable, it seemed as if each one was aging backwards. Sasha had come to ignore them.  She no longer made attempts to reconcile her and Maddy-Grace’s friendship. Besides, with each attempt she was disregarded like a used piece of trash.

By graduation, Sasha had determined that college was not for her.  She took a job working as a library assistant at the elementary school she used to attend, and had happily settled into life with her mother in their cozy little apartment.

After what happened to Daddy, Mama had never considered remarrying.  The shock and devastation of that day took away her desire to ever want to be with anyone else.  She was happy to have her baby girl still be there to support her even after she grew into adulthood. Still, she dreaded the day when Sasha may decide she’d had enough of living life attached to an old woman, and without a husband to call her own.

Sasha didn’t seem to mind keeping  her mother company throughout the years.  She genuinely enjoyed her mother.  They were best friends, the only one she’d had since Maddy-Grace. The nightly routine of having her mother do her hair, had turned into a welcomed practice of playing Gin or dominoes as she grew and learned how to style her own hair. Although she did miss those scalp massages. She attempted to do them on her own, but never got the relaxed sensation she experienced from Mama’s touch. Her efforts did serve to keep her mane thick, long and flowing well past her shoulders even in its coarse natural form.  How she’d worn her hair for her entire life was now the new societal trend, well accepted among the very people who used to make fun of her for having the nerve to dawn it.

Her life was just the way she wanted it to be. Uneventful, predictable, and consistent. That is until the day Jared walked back in. It had been many years since she last had the pleasure of being in his company.  Despite having witnessed the countless turmoil she endured from her former best friend, which made her ridicule all the more embarrassing, he embraced her, even leaving his group of friends to come and sit with her during recess so she wouldn’t be alone.  

The Corona Chronicles (The Injustice Martyrs)

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As if running from the Corona Virus wasn't enough, this year has exposed the world to what Black people have been trying to scream out for over 400 years. WE ARE NOT SAFE IN OUR OWN SKIN.  Racism is as alive as it was during the Civil Rights Movement. In fact, its looking more like a modernized Jim Crow Era. Not even the white people who fight with us would choose to walk a mile in our shoes for fear of their own lives being put on the line.

For years we have watched ourselves be villainized  by an injustice system set up to watch us fail. Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and George Floyd were just the latest in the many martyrs to our system's injustice before them. And they question our anger?  They wonder why we have a problem continually burying our loved ones?

I'm so glad that the revolution IS being televised. Its about time that the world sees the position we have been put in as a people.  Justice for some, really equals justice for none because skin color is not a defining factor to being human.

Watching George Floyd cry out to the officer for mercy, and exclaim that he could not breathe while the officer continued to apply pressure to his neck almost broke me. Then I learned that not only was he strangled to death, but also beaten by three of the officers in the back of their police cruiser before being taken down with his face to the ground; helpless, while the fourth officer stood watch. I was devastated.  My mind kept going to this helpless man's face, pressed so deeply in the ground you could hardly see the whole of it.  Flashes of my own son's faces flipped in and out, replacing George Floyd's.  The horror and agony he must have felt in that moment.  All of this happened because the cashier inside the convenience store he had just come from, thought he'd paid for his merchandise with a fake twenty dollar bill.  Even with it being proven to be a real twenty in the end, was his life worth just twenty dollars?  Do police really view us as that cheap, that worthless of a people?

I wonder, because since I can remember, we have been brainwashed into believing we're not enough.  Its the reason why over the years we've done all we can to straighten our hair, lighten our skin, and have colorism amongst members of our own race. We've even adopted our "white speak" for when we are in the company of a lot of white people, so they don't feel uncomfortable while we're around.

As a little girl, I was told by one of the little white girls I used to play with that I was a Negro because I was a girl. The "nigger" label was reserved for my male counterparts, and I believed it back then.  I believed it!  Only because I was one of only two black children in my school, the other of whom was of a much lighter complexion, and came from a more well-to-do family, while I was the product of a broken home.  Mama and I had barely escaped my daddy's abuse (more so her than me).

In my neighborhood, where the "good schools" Mama worked so hard to keep me in, there was no representation of anything within myself that I could look to and be proud of. Instead, I was told how to feel about how God made me.  When I look back now as an adult, comfortable in the skin, and with the hair God gave me, I just wonder how I could have believed the definition of mere human beings who had nothing to do with the Divine Architect who crafted me and those like me, with His loving hands, and then said what He made was good.  How could any of us believe it?  But, I guess that's the power of brainwashing. 

We were bought at a price, taken from our home country, delivered over to a people who call us lazy, but paid to have us work to make money for them so they wouldn't have to.  Through time, as we gained our freedoms, we were told to, "go back to Africa;" since we had the legal right to live life freely, and earn money for ourselves.  Black Wall Street came about not long after emancipation, but was burned to the ground with lives lost to murderous hate-filled people who couldn't stand the fact that among us were enterprising, intellectually sound, thought provoking, investors who had grown from the binds of slavery to be millionaires with land of their own which they could pass down through the generations.

We enjoyed twenty years where the wealth of our people was allowed to grow.  They called it the Renaissance, and it is purposefully omitted from the lesson plans of teachers who could be showing black youth that their lives can be more than just impoverished, criminal, and confined; that their history covers more than just being somebody's slave.

Go back to Africa? For real? We were BORN here.  To be honest, if we're to go back to Africa, then those who say that need to pack their bags as well.  America is not your native land.  You stole it from those who believed the land belonged to everyone.  They wanted to share it with you, and you took it by force, killing their babies by bashing them against the stones, and taking their lives with violent force.

This morning I was led to the book of Esther in the Bible.  It reminded me of the destiny those filled with hate can expect.  Haman, who was second-in-command of the Persian Empire, enjoyed all the perks provided to his people. His power, prestige, and authority was flaunted over others as the expectation for reverence was impressed upon the people who they considered beneath them.  Mordecai, a member of the Jewish race, and Esther's relative, refused to give Haman the reverence he desired, because Mordecai's reverence belonged to God alone. This of course did not stroke Haman's self-centered ego, and he hated Mordecai for it. Not only that, he hated all of the Jews, and wanted to kill them.  His hate and desire to rid the world of the Jewish race so consumed him, he plotted and used the head of the country's government at the time (King Xerxes) to make plans to obliterate them.

I'm sure Haman expected great gain (whether financial or in power) from the enactment of his plans, but the day set aside for the Jews to be destroyed ended up being the day they were set free.  In considering himself better than others because of his race, Haman ended up being punished for his arrogant attitude.  All of his scheming against God's people had set him up against God, The Creator, who is Love & not hate. 

The scripture note reminded me that, "God will harshly judge those who are prejudiced or whose pride causes them to look down on others." What a burden it must be as well, to carry the load of hate. People who practice it always seem to be so angry. It has to be miserable to live in anger all of the time.

I pray that all my black brothers and sisters, all my brothers and sisters of other races who stand with us in this human justice fight will not lose hope.  I pray there be no more martyrs, as George Floyd's death has woken the sleeping beast of silence.  Carry on in the fight because there is so much left to do. Keep traction moving forward as we strive for the equal treatment we deserve under the law.  Emancipation was the break out, The Civil Rights Movement was the starting lap. Now we are in a full sprint. Don't lose hope, and please don't lose heart. Do all that is in your power to do legally, and within reason. 

As we fight against an injustice system set against us and practiced by those who are considered "bad apples" in a law enforcement group meant to protect and serve the citizens of America, not just themselves; I am reminded of the words of one of my favorite comedians. "Some groups just can't afford to have bad apples."- Chris Rock.  


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Death of A Friend; Death of A Friendship

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Back in 2005, I met a young mother in my son's kindergarten class sitting with her daughter during orientation. She had the cutest, and sweetest little girl, and she and my son were one of the few black children in the room. They became fast friends, which made it only natural for us as their mothers to find time to hang out outside of school so they could play together. It was the start of a unique friendship.

Like me, she was a stay-at-home mom.  She had an older son in the second grade, her kindergartener (the girl who was the same age as my son), and a baby boy who was only two. I say we had a unique friendship because outside of us being stay-at-home moms and black, we didn't have much in common. She was younger, louder, livelier and much more feisty, and I was not necessarily quiet, but calmer and less prone to partying.  I admired her energy though, and how she never seemed to get tired, even with more kids than I had.   She and her husband were in super shape too.  Although my husband and I were still in our twenties, and in good relative shape, I remember we once attempted to race them to prove that we still had it, and got so left in their dust, we never tried it again.

We really should have known better. He was a professional trainer, who would eventually own his own gym, and she was an aerobics instructor who could dance like I wish I still could, but didn't have the nerve or speed.

There was only one car in their family at the time, so I used to go to her house and pick her up. She would call me and tell me she either wanted to come over and visit with me, or needed to grocery shop for her family.  I couldn't remember "hanging out" with someone as much as I did her since high school.  At times, it even felt to me that we had stepped back into high school. I took for granted the fact that she simply liked to keep company with me, and used to complain to my husband about her coming over too much.

The first time she rode in the car with me she felt comfortable enough to break wind. We laughed, and I played it off like I wasn't offended and told her it was ok, because we all do it.  It was the truth, but I couldn't believe her boldness.  Deep down, I guess I wish I had the same nonchalant boldness, but nothing in me would allow for that type of unabashed openness to being yourself no matter who was watching when I was that young.

From day one, she came by to visit on an almost daily basis.  We'd let the kids play while we watched T. V., talked about what we were cooking for dinner that night, or our husbands and how we were with them before we got married. She had been with her husband since they were in high school, so although we were a few years older than they were, they had a much longer history together.

Some of the stories she shared about her past did more than intrigue me. I actually wanted to TRY the experiences for myself. When she told me that she and her husband had done ecstasy together, that very night, I went to my husband and asked how he'd feel about trying it with me.  Her life made me feel as if mine was so cookie cutter.  I lived to be who people expected, never having the nerve to step outside of the box and do the stupid things expected of young people. In a sense I envied her because I knew I wouldn't be brave enough to live freely as she did.  The ecstasy conversation never went past a brief inquiry.  There would just be no way either me nor my husband would have the gall.

I also admired the way she and her husband parented their children.  To be perfectly transparent, I thought the way she reared her children was one of the few things which made her mature. Neither of them tolerated disrespect, they were consistent with their expectations, they fed them healthy home cooked meals nightly, and knew how to let loose and spend time playing games too.

I would never have told her for fear of hurting her feelings, although I'm sure it reflected in my attitude sometimes, but I always thought that her husband was the mature one in their relationship.  To me, she seemed to be more a teenager trapped in a grown woman's body.  Maybe I was just too prudent at the time, because instead of judging her, now as I look back, I wish I had absorbed more of her youthful energy and had a little more fun.

By the time 2008 came around, my family and I had been preparing to move up to Washington state for a 2 year project my husband had been assigned to lead. My young and energetic friend and I hadn't spoken in months.  It was a misunderstanding, and as far as I can remember, it concerned things that would be considered so minor. When it was all said and done, I was retrieving my hot curlers she had borrowed months before, and she was asking for her Kirk Franklin CD back.  I don't think we even argued. We just stopped talking, and I can blame myself for that.  For some inexcusable reason, I thought myself to be too "mature" to continue putting up with her "ways.". Its crazy as I think about it now, and I regret it.

When we moved back to Texas in 2010 we ended up living in a whole new city than we were before, hardly paying visits to the old neighborhood.  And when 2013 came, I heard she had been killed in a car accident.  This was just six months after she had given birth to her fifth child. She was only just entering her 30s.  My heart sunk.  I never got the chance to say goodbye, and I was so stuck in my own ways, I refused to put forth the effort either.  What a shame.

I poured through her Facebook pictures, looking at her as she grew into more of a woman, and watching her children grow from grade school age to adolescence. Her daughter, the only girl born to the family at the time I knew her, had grown to look exactly like her mother.  I felt for the family. Here the father was trying to pick up life, raise five children, mourn the loss of his long time love all on his own.  I could see sadness in his eyes, even as he smiled for pictures while embracing his kids. The puncture would developing in my heart grew.  I should have been a better friend to her.

Now, the children we raised together in our little version of what I liked to call "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood," are all grown up.  Entering into the early adulthood long behind us. I miss her.  And when I want to see her again, and feel the energy she gave so freely, I sneak back to her Facebook page, and look at the younger version of her, still growing, alive and thriving; carrying on her mother's legacy with pride.

She did an excellent job mothering those kids.  I pray for them, that they not allow this troublesome life to beat them down in her absence, but make her proud by propelling themselves forward in the direction of their dreams.

The Corona Chronicles (Transitioning)

 

As I sit here now, my heart is full. I am witnessing both of my sons transition from boys to men, and it is an amazing sight to see. My youngest son is about to be apart of the graduating class of 2020.   This will be the first graduating class I can remember not being able to enjoy a prom, ceremony, or celebration with a room full of family and friends. For my youngest, this particular time in history is yet another thing which makes him special.  He was born on September 11th, 2001 while our nation was being attacked by Al-Qaeda, who were set on destroying our country by killing its citizens.  Now he graduates high school at a time when our country is being attacked by a virus, set on destroying as many lives as it gets ahold of.

Many have considered finally taking the leap, and starting a new career. I'll admit, I was one of those.  Since "the world" seemed to be closed, now seemed as good a time as any to look into a career which would actually make me happy, and be a joy to come back to daily.  My resume' was updated, and so was my LinkedIn. I was even making steps to reach out to recruiters until I had a meeting with my boss, and he told me how valuable I was, and how the company's growth depended on my presence.  Finally! I had gotten the appreciation I had been hungry for. We even discussed the possibility of a raise in the near future.

ABC News says that once the country has fully opened up, the divorce rate is expected to skyrocket. Married people are fully anticipating transitioning into singlehood when all is said and done. The only thing possibly holding them back now is the fact that the court houses are closed, but when the restrictions are lifted, family law attorney Robert Segal expects a "deluge of divorce cases." It seems when some couples have to deal with each other on a day-in-day-out basis, they actually don't seem to like who they're living with. The thought of this is so sad, and begs to wonder why two people who pledged to be together until death can't even share the same space for a prolonged period of time. I'll admit that my husband and I could have been apart of the statistic BEFORE the quarantine. We've been married for 21 years, and the pressures of life can pull people apart. But, for some reason, times of trials, and sticky situations always bring us closer together. In January, I was ready to give up, but today, I am glad we are trying. Today, we are winning.

This weekend one of my dearest friends lost her baby sister suddenly. She was only in her 30s, and no one knows yet, the cause until the autopsy is performed. Last week my mother-in-law lost her older brother, and her other brother lost his wife; both to cancer.  I have no idea how to form the words to comfort these people whom I love, but what I will do is be there for them. My sorority sister, who was set to graduate from Jackson State University this year was killed. As the story goes, because this is not the first time we've seen women die under these circumstances, she had a boyfriend who became an ex-boyfriend, and then a stalker, abuser, and finally her killer.  All of these people have transitioned from life to death, and all of their loved ones are left to figure out how in the world they will bury them during a time with so many restrictions that a simple burial can become a big ordeal.  Its a heavy burden to bear.

This transitioning thing is not easy.  As a matter-of-fact it can be overwhelming, adding stress to an already pressure-filled situation.  There is no absolute way to transition. Nobody wrote a play book on it. We just have to learn to endure the change, and hopefully come through it stronger.

The Corona Chronicles (Just To Be Real)

Y'all, I am MISSING my father. Just to be 100% real, it gets hard sometimes. Since he left us last year, life has seemed to go full speed ahead.  Honestly, its been hurdle after hurdle, and once I get over the last one, the next one comes and seems even bigger. But God slowed me and the world down with this quarantine. Its given me much time to reflect and reset.

Typically, I fight myself.  Images of his face try and pop into my mind constantly. I work hard to remove those images because I'm not yet ready to deal with the burden that follows them. His smile, his voice.  There are times in those twenty-one consistent years we had together, that I felt he was the only one I could turn to who would understand me. Our relationship had become so special, I didn't realize how much I'd come to rely on it until he was gone. We usually take for granted the fact that one day our parents will leave us.  I spent so many years speaking negatively about my father because of things I felt he'd done wrong, now as I look back, I see that I should have been honoring the fact that he'd spent all of twenty-one years doing the best he could to be a consistent father to me, and grandfather to my children.

I ache, but to keep myself from totally crumbling, I avoid thinking of him too long, avoid looking at pictures of him too hard. I even stopped calling his phone just to hear his voice on his answering machine, for fear it might be disconnected by now, leaving me utterly devastated.  Then I'm faced with the unknown.  My dream was to walk my daddy (while he was alive) down the hallway of the sanctuary in church, and to the alter where he would give his life over to Christ.  That never happened. Instead, his caretaker told me she prayed the sinner's prayer with him, and after much rejection, he finally accepted Christ.  I pray he was genuine.  Daddy knew about God, even telling me he attended church in his own way in front of his television on Sunday morning. I believed him.  Still, I am afraid when all is said and done, will I see him in heaven when I get there?  The thought that I may not is unbearable, so I choose to constantly remind myself of his caretaker's words to him before he left this earth.  She said," Gerald, its ok. You can go now. You have made your peace with God, and He's forgiven you. Go on Gerald, its ok."

Before she spoke those words, Daddy fought daily not to go anywhere.  Even as he lay dying in so much pain all he could cry out was, "NO!" He stuck around for me, but when she said those words, he finally let go.

In the past week I've watched one of my friends bury her father who died unexpectantly, and then another lose her mother to cancer.   They are under the heavy weight of sorrow right  along with many others who don't have the benefit of saying goodbye at a proper burial surrounded by family and friends. At least I was gifted that.  Although Daddy was called "mean," the church was full on the day of his funeral, and everyone who came was there to pay their respects, not to insure he was dead.  It made my heart glad.

Every night though, while I'm in the shower, I typically have a mini concert; singing hymns and praises to God, not only cleansing my body, but giving my soul a good scrub too.  When I'm in there, crying just comes natural.  I don't have to hide behind the façade of momentary strength, and I can totally let go without being bothered.

Death is all around us now.  To be honest, I feel guilt when I even think to grieve my father.  There is so many others who need comfort, and since I understand pain, I want to provide it.

The Corona Chronicles (Tragic Aftermath)



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Wow! Only one word seems fitting enough to totally capture this moment in history, and that's "wow." Since the outbreak of the Corona Virus, our nation alone has seen so many changes. I can only imagine what is going on in other parts of the world.

It has been said that one's true colors are shown when they are down and out. From anxiety to depression, unemployment to fear, helplessness to hopelessness, sickness to death, we are all facing some sort of angst which comes from the unknown. Its a biologic attack we had not prepared for, and its sad to say that these conditions have made victims of countless many in one way or another.

Reports have shown that the number of domestic violence cases has increased; which means the orders set in place to protect our lives, have also caused those living with an abuser further risk in losing theirs. It is a sad reality to hear a father who felt his only option was to take the lives of not only his wife, but also himself and his innocent children. Could the pressure to provide have been so overwhelming that he saw no other option?

 USA Today calls it "the other epidemic." Statistically speaking the United Kingdom reported a 700% increase in helpline calls in one day; France reported a 30% increase in domestic violence cases since the start of the quarantine, and in the United States coastal cities like Seattle, New York, Orange County and Portland have seen record numbers of reports for domestic cases.  It becomes a wonder when a Starbucks down the street from my home chose to close its doors to the public during the lockdown, but every liquor store I passed stayed open.  Liquor, one of the many options we turn to when we want to escape from reality.  It gives a feigned peace, escape, and courage that we may not have otherwise.

I've watched the affects it can have on a family's dynamic being witness to my own father's alcoholism.  There was many a time when that alcohol drove my father to the constant cycle of violence in our home against my mother. For some reason, he was never abusive to me. As a matter-of-fact, when it came to his "little one", he was very protective in the manner in which he put his hands on me; afraid he may for some reason break me.  So why my mother?  The one he claimed was the love of his life.

In no way do I believe alcohol is the cause of an abuser's strike, but it sure can provide the fuel behind it.

When the quarantine has been lifted, and everyone returns to "the new normal," there will still be a level of uncertainty.  We will be going out and facing a risk (hopefully lowered) to our own lives. The job market will take time to recover, and the economy has been damaged. Its a scary thing, not knowing the answer to the questions we will continue to have; even scarier for those who live in wonder every day:  Will this be the day?  Will I live or die? Who will take care of the children when I'm gone?

The Corona Chronicles (Reflections)

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Last night I had a dream about my father's little sister, the aunt for which I was named (middle, not first name).  She used to be cool to me. I liked that even though my father had alienated himself from most of his siblings, she was still one of the few who popped in to check on him; at least before he got sick.

Being quarantined allots you plenty of time to reflect on life.  It was around this time last year that I lost my father. On April 2nd at 2:00 A. M., he took his last breath. My cousins, who had been sitting with him through the night to help out his caretaker, called screaming into the phone what I already knew.  I sat straight up in my bed, not knowing whether to join them in wailing, or keep a focused mind so that I could get the details I needed to begin making arrangements for his funeral.  I chose the latter, because though my heart was hurting, I couldn't allow those feelings to cloud my thoughts.  Besides, at that moment, Daddy didn't need me wailing.  What good was that?  It served to accomplish nothing but to put off time making plans for his final resting place.

In his final weeks, I took visits down to Louisiana to be with him, and see about his needs. I remember it being one of the most stressful moments of my life.  On top of taking care of Daddy, I had to deal with his family and their many questions on what I was going to do, as well as their many "suggestions" on what they thought I should do.

One time in particular replays itself in my head over and over, and I have to fight continuously not to hold this moment as a reason to resent the aunt for whom I'd been named. I had just driven in, and the trip had taken longer than expected.  Whether it was traffic or construction, I can't remember, I just know it had taken me five hours. As soon as I walked in to sit at my father's bed, she asked me if I knew anything about large sums of money he typically hides around the house. She said that she and my other aunt had been up all night looking for it. 

I thought the question was odd, seeing as how I'd never known my father to hide large sums of money anywhere. Also, at the time, it didn't matter to me. If he did have money, he made sure to keep it on his person or in the bank.  Besides that, he lived on a fixed income since he had long passed the age of retirement.

I noticed that this so-called money seemed to be her full concern throughout my visit. On occasion I would catch her staring at me out of the sides of her eyes as if she thought I was hiding something myself. For me, it was a shame.  My main focus was not on any kind of money, but on my father, who was dying right before our eyes. He was in so much pain, our conversations could barely be heard over his cries.  Any time we needed to say something important, we had to step outside on the porch. This is where my aunt and I had our biggest face-to-face confrontation.

I was tired from days of nonstop worry, work, and questioning from my family about my father's final arrangements.  I didn't have the security of my husband or children being there to help me, so in my mind, it was just me against my own flesh and blood. I thanked God every day for Daddy's caretaker.  She was the only one I felt really had his best interest at heart without a personal agenda.  She willingly helped without asking for anything in return.  For that, she was more family to me than my own.

One day, angered by my aunt's gall in her insinuations about where I should be giving his life insurance money, I told my aunt that I was here, taking care of him when I had not received the same while growing up.  As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back, but her words kept my apology at bay. A quick flash of how I was just at my father's bedside, whispering how I would never leave him, after everyone else had left the room, played out in me mind. She kept telling me that he was my responsibility because I was his next of kin, as if I didn't already know that.  What got me, was how she refused to do anything for her brother but sit at his death bed and say how he was getting what he deserved after the life he lived.  Even as he lay there crying out in pain, she refused to learn how to administer his morphine because she didn't want to learn.  My father could hear every word.  She was under the impression that he didn't understand, but he did.  I knew this because when everyone had left, and it was just he and I, when I spoke, he replied.

After I let those dreaded words fall out of my mouth, she told me I needed to just get over it.  I told her I was, but I wanted her to know that despite my past, I had chosen to take care of my father, hoping this would help her see that nothing about what money he had kept me coming around, it was just him and our relationship.

This morning I dreamed about that exact moment on the porch with my aunt, except this time, I really let her have it.  It seems after confrontation we always look back and see what we could have said differently, and it typically bends to the side of really going off on the other person.  I woke up from the dream feeling vindicated.  After all, just before my father's funeral services my aunt had threatened my mother, telling her that if she ever were to set foot in Crowley she would cut her legs off. Mama was so shocked, because she thought they were friends. I later learned from my father's other sisters that this particular aunt had always been a bully.

Even after the funeral she continued to spread lies about me; going so far as to say I lived off my father and was a party girl.  The notion was so hilarious; no one believed it. But the knowledge of the threat to my mother didn't make me treat her any differently during the services.  I personally handed her Daddy's obituary.  She took it, and then introduced me to other members of the family I didn't know.  I could tell by the look in her eyes, she felt ashamed.  There was no need in me adding to it.  Besides, the Bible speaks very clear about how to handle people like my aunt, and though I may have been very angry, I wasn't going to allow her to have the power to ruin my father's final life celebration.

All of the drama, and wondering what I was going to do with my father's life insurance money; an inheritance he left solely to me, did not bring him back.  He had suffered a horrible death, by the end, his caretaker said his moans had gotten so loud, his body so weak, right before he took his last breath she whispered in his ears that it was okay for him to let go.  He had been forgiven and made right with God. The last of his blood poured from his colon, soaking the bed and causing his frail frame to seemingly collapse to nothing.   It was only then he let out a long drawn out exhale, and left the defeated shell of the man he used to be. He was gone, and no longer in pain.  Of that, I was relieved.

Daddy wanted to be cremated, and though I was against it, I honored his wish. I made a promise to myself that one day I would bury him in the place he'd always longed to go back to, and I will;  just not yet. For now my father is still with me, while I prepare in my heart to give his ashes to the place he loved.  I don't know what it was about Fort Worth, Texas that captured his allegiance, but its where he wanted to be, so I'll honor that wish too.

As for Daddy's family, I'll love them from a distance while I tend to my own for now. When all was said and done, I never asked them for a dime to bury my father. All those worries they had about how I would take care of everything were for nothing.  God put in my path many who didn't even know my father, but were willing to help me prepare to say good-bye. I thank them for that.  Most importantly, I thank God for his provision, because I never thought I'd have the strength to bury a parent without it.